


Blind

by PoetHrotsvitha



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Accidental Incest, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Anonymous Sex, But no blood relation so.... not really, Estrangement, F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 02:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19368355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetHrotsvitha/pseuds/PoetHrotsvitha
Summary: He's back for the first time in a decade, and everything about this is a bad idea.





	Blind

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to the 1,276,978 shoujo manga out there based on this trope

He shouldn’t be here.

That’s the thought that keeps playing on loop over the shitty music, just above the haze of drunkenness that he’s doing a pretty good job of maintaining.

It’s been a few hours. The animal heads mounted on the wall are starting to look distinctly judgemental.

No matter how much he tries to ignore it, though, the invitation still burns a hole in his breast pocket. Addressed to Ben Solo, it shouldn’t mean anything to him, but here he is anyway. In this shitty bar, in this shitty town, presumably so he can attend this shitty, shitty excuse of a wedding.

He’s normally a bit more eloquent. His arguments are his living, and he has every reason to keep this mind and his tongue sharp, both in court and out of it. But as he knocks back the last of the whisky in his glass, he decides that tonight— of all nights— no one could blame him if he falls back on the familiar and reliable relief of profanity. _Shit. Shit. Shit._

Getting back into his car and driving the six hours back home is out of the question. Even the bar stool feels a little unsteady, he’s in no fit state to drive. He lifts his glass and gives it a brisk shake, letting it thump back on the sticky bar once the bartender gives him a nod. If he’s going to need to get a taxi back to the shitty motel anyway, one more can’t hurt.

And maybe one more after that. It’s not as if there’s anything else to do in this shitty, shitty shithole of a town.

 

* * *

  

“Vodka, please. A shot.”

It’s the accent that makes him look up, British and polished and female and completely out of place. She’s propped up on the bar beside him and digging around in her bag, a tattered thing that hangs from her shoulder all the way down to her hip. The bartender hasn’t asked for ID, even though Ben can hardly believe that she’s old enough to vote, let alone drink.

He’s normally not particularly smooth when it comes to women, but the alcohol makes him bold. Or maybe it’s her three funny little buns and the cute accent. “I’ll cover it,” he says to the bartender, who shrugs as if to say it doesn't make any difference to him.

She gives him an appraising look. Can probably see how drunk he is. “I didn’t ask for you to pay.”

“I know.” She keeps staring at him, so he lifts his drink in a half-salute. “I offered.”

“Do you buy everyone a drink?”

“Only if they’re pretty,” he offers, pleased with himself for that line. She rolls her eyes, which— okay, fair, it’s a bit schmaltzy— but it’s also true. She _is_ pretty, with a pointed little nose and wide pink lips.

“I’m not going to do anything with you just because you bought me a drink.”

Fair. He probably should be getting that taxi soon, anyway. “Maybe I didn’t want to do anything with you, consider that?”

“You’re terrible at flirting.” Her words come with an almost-smile. 

This is true. “Thankfully, I’m decent at other things.”

She actually settles onto the bar stool beside him, looking like she intends to stay put. “Yeah? Like what?”

He can’t think of anything. “... Being bad at flirting.”

The almost-smile grows a little more. “You’re good at being bad at flirting.”

“That’s me.”

He knows it doesn’t make any sense. He’s about two drinks past caring.

The shot is placed on the bar in front of her, and she flashes a proper grin at the bartender. She has a big, broad smile and straight white teeth, and when she tosses the shot back, she does it with a delicate little grimace and shake.

Straight vodka for a girl drinking alone. He almost wants to ask if she’s avoiding something like he is. But, then, if he keeps quiet she might stay and let him keep staring at her.

“So,” she says, crossing her legs, drawing his eyes to the short little skirt she’s wearing. God, her legs go on for miles. There are ratty sneakers on her feet, the laces untied on one of them, dangling towards the floor. “What else?”

He’s wondering what kind of panties she’s wearing. It takes him a second to reroute his brain. “What else what?”

“What else are you decent at?”

Something has changed about the way she’s looking at him. It’s definitely the cute accent that makes him bold this time. “Want to find out?”

 

* * *

 

It’s crowded in the stall and she basically has to stand between his legs to be able to fit. It bothers him less once she’s kissing him, sloppily and determinedly— and even less again when she turns around and bends over, pressing her elbows against the door.

If he had worries about being able to get it up with all the alcohol in his system, they basically disappear when he tugs her skirt up and her panties (white with blue polkadots and perfect) down, revealing little dimples that rest over a perfectly peachy ass. _Dimples_. Did she walk straight out of a porno?

Any remaining doubts go up in smoke when he cups her between her legs and finds her soaking, sticky and wet enough that it clings to his fingers.

She waits there, patient and good as anything, as he fumbles with his belt and shoves his pants down. He really ought to warm her up a little, ease her into it, maybe let her get off once first. But he’s never been particularly famous for his judgement or common sense, so instead he rolls on a condom— thank god for that little pocket in his wallet— and fists his dick, giving it a few punishing pumps. Secure in the knowledge that _he’s_ ready, he lines them up and shoves into her by sharply pulling back on her hips.

She squeaks and slaps a hand over her mouth, her fist thudding against the door of the stall. He still isn’t even in all the way; it takes a few awkward tries for him to properly feel like he’s fucked his way into the tightness of her body, dripping wet and burning hot even through the layer of latex.

It’s only when their hips are flush that he pauses, panting out, “Are you— are you okay?” He definitely should’ve asked sooner, from the way that her shoulders are trembling.

“It’s a lot,” she whispers, sounding a little strangled. “Just— give me a second?”

He can do that. Especially given that she just gave him the gift of telling him he has a big dick, which is bouncing around his head in a satisfying way. He feels dizzy. That might be the whisky. Or it might be the snug, hot clench of her cunt, gripping him so tightly that he’s not sure he could move if he wants to.

He makes the mistake of looking down and the visual of it, the way her hips are upturned because— yup, if he cranes his neck sideways he can see she’s on her toes, thighs shaking as she tries to hold herself upright— and he ends up jerking his hips in a little involuntary movement. She squeaks but it slides into a low moan when he tries it again, and then again, and then again, the squelching sound still audible over the muffled strains of _Owner of a Lonely Heart_ echoing against the tiles of the toilet.

The door creaks. They freeze at the sound of footsteps.

Ben can feel his pulse in his ears. And in his dick as she squeezes around him, petrified, and he has to grip her waist tightly to make sure they don’t move an inch. Which has the unintended effect of highlighting how small her waist is, and despite the heart-stopping fear of being found in a grimy bar toilet fucking a stranger, Ben’s reptile-brain still has the energy to be thrilled about the fact that he can almost span her entire body with his hands outstretched.

They hold perfectly still as the steps walk to the urinal, followed by the sound of a zipper and trickling fluid. Then another pause, a shuffle, the _whoosh_ of a running sink. Ben thinks he doesn’t even breathe until the music briefly gets louder with the heavy sound of the opening door.

It hasn’t finished closing before the girl grabs his full attention by rocking her hips up and down, working herself on him, practically bouncing on his dick. The jerky rolling movement of her shoulder alerts him to the fact that she’s shoved her hand between her legs, rubbing frantically, trying to get off around him. He ought to stop and help her. He should turn her around, get down on his knees on this filthy floor, eat her out and show her a proper good time. But she twists her neck around to look at him out of the corner of her eyes and they’re glistening, her lower lip pulled between her teeth. “Please,” she murmurs out, “please, harder, I can’t move enough—”

His brain whites out. Sliding his hands to grip her hips punishingly tightly, he gives her the speed and force she apparently wants, slamming her back against him as he rocks forward. Each sound punches another little whimper out of her, now gritted out around her knuckles, her fingers still working furiously between her legs.

She doubles over and knocks her head against the stall door when she comes, shuddering and getting so tight that it takes concerted effort to keep fucking her through it. When she then relaxes in the afterglow, loose-limbed and soft in his arms, he can bring his lips to the side of her neck, awkwardly hunching so he can bite and taste the salt-sweat of her skin. It’s perfect. She smells like girl and soap, rich in his nostrils. When she reaches behind her to tangle her fingers in his hair, it brings them so close together that he can feel the slightness of her frame against his body, the way he dwarfs her, but she’s still taking him so well, like she was built for him, like he’s leaving the shape of him inside of her, moulding her to him so perfectly—

He empties into the condom with a shuddering groan, clutching her so tightly that she lets out an indignant yelp. He realises why when he slumps and there is the thump of her shoes hitting the ground; he had literally lifted her off her feet.

There isn’t quite enough room for both of them to reorganise their clothing without elbowing each other, so he stands braced over her as she shimmies her skirt and panties back on.

“I’ll go out first,” she whispers, breathy and soft. All he can do is nod, trying to remember how his belt works, how his fingers work, how his feet work. It’s like there’s nothing left where his brain used to be.

His soul slowly drips back into his body as he figures out his zipper. He decides that once he’s put everything back where it’s supposed to go, he’ll buy her another drink, one she can actually sit and enjoy. And then he’ll somehow figure out a way to get her number. Do anything he has to, as long as it means they can do this again.

But when he finally gets back into the bar, she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

He skips breakfast. The motel wasn’t exactly serving a continental spread, and the dryness of his mouth and the unsteadiness in his stomach make him pretty sure that he would just barf up anything on offer at the local diner.

He times his arrival at the town hall to minutes before the ceremony. Right up until he reaches the doors, he’s half considering sprinting away and never coming back. But then he remembers the feeling of standing in his front hallway and holding the heavy embossed card, cream with smooth black calligraphy, requesting that he _Join Us in Celebrating the Vows of Leia Organa and Han Solo_ , as if they hadn’t already tried that once. The shock of realising that he’d become so disconnected from his former life that he didn’t know that his parents were even speaking again, let alone that they were on good enough terms to get remarried.

Which was always his intent, obviously. He had wanted to get away, start over as completely as possible. He stuffed the card in a bookshelf and resolved to ignore it.

And yet. And yet. Somehow, it sat uneasily in his stomach, a pit he couldn’t will away. He kept circling back to it like water round a drain. And when he looked at his calendar and realised that it was only one day away from the Big Day, it felt like there was no option other than to put on his best suit and start driving.

It only takes two more minutes of standing and hesitating on the front steps of the town hall to finally get through the doors.

He’s a big man and it’s typically hard for him to sneak anywhere, but everyone’s attention is firmly trained on the front of the room, where _they_ are, standing on the slightly raised dais and facing each other, a justice of the peace between them. Behind his father is Chewie, and behind his Mother is—

His heart buckles, jumping like he’s missed a step on the stairs. It’s her. It’s _her_. The girl from the bar. She even still has the little bruise that he left on her neck, almost-successfully hidden behind some makeup. But now she’s in a floaty purple dress and has a flower in her hair, looking as fresh as a spring morning. And she’s standing behind _his Mother_ for reasons that he absolutely can’t make sense of, even as he sits as quickly and quietly as he can in the back row, head bowed, trying not to draw anyone’s eyes.

He can’t hear the words that are said, barely sees the kiss even as everyone in the room whoops and cheers. All he can do is replay the bits of last night that he can remember like a terrible, porny gag reel, remembering her throaty sounds and the heat of her cunt and trying not to tent his trousers.

This was a terrible mistake. The ceremony is wrapping up, barely ten minutes long, and Ben jumps to his feet. Maybe he can leave without anyone noticing him.

But his Mother is turning, eyes sweeping across the room. They lock eyes for a split second, and just like that, it’s too late. “Ben,” she mouths, breaking into a wide grin and starting towards him from the front of the hall. He can’t make a run for it now without looking like a coward and a child. “Ben,” she says, this time close enough for him to hear, “is that you?”

He doesn’t know what face to make. How do you greet the woman who gave birth to you, who you haven’t seen for ten years? After you let all her calls go to voicemail, deleted all of her emails unread, returned the post unopened? His cheek won’t stop twitching like he’s about to bare his teeth. “Hi, Mom.”

“Ben,” she says again, voice rich with relief, stepping in and wrapping her arms around his chest in the warmest, tightest hug that anyone has given him in a decade. It takes his breath away and fills him with a sense of childish relief so pure and deep that, for a moment, it washes away all of his doubts about deciding to return. When she steps back, she pats his cheek, bangles jingling on her wrist. “I’ve missed you.”

 _I’ve missed you too_ , is what he should say, but what comes out is “I can’t believe you’re marrying him again.”

She laughs, and he sees all the additional wrinkles that ten years will bring. She looks a little more tired than he remembers, a little thinner, but otherwise remarkably unchanged. “Me neither. And there’s more news. I would have told you earlier— but, well, you know.” _But I didn’t let you have any way to speak to me_ , Ben supplies in his head, wishing that the floor could open up and swallow him whole without anyone noticing. “Rey,” she calls out, giving Ben that horrible stomach-swooping sensation again. She yells it once more, this time loud enough to be heard on the opposite side of the room, where the girl— _Rey_ — was laughing with Chewie. Leia beckons her over, turning back to Ben in time to completely miss the shock of recognition playing across Rey’s face.

It can only take her about ten seconds to cross the small hall, but it’s enough time that they both manage to not openly gawp at each other when she stops at Leia’s side. “Rey,” Leia says, placing a hand gently on her arm. “I know that I’ve only spoken of him occasionally, but this is my son, Ben—”

It’s almost funny, the horror on her face. Or it is until Leia finishes her sentence.

“—Ben, this is your new sister, Rey. She’s Han’s.”

The bottom falls out of Ben’s world. His stomach contracts so violently that he thinks he might lean over and throw up right on his mother’s expensive shoes, if there were anything in his stomach.

“Adopted,” Rey adds in a blurted rush, voice high with panic. “ _Adopted_ sister! Han, he— a few years ago—”

Leia seems blissfully unaware that both of the other parties in this conversation are sitting right on the edge of a heart attack. “I promise that I’ll be back, Ben, I’m so, so glad that you’re here— but our DJ’s here and I need to go remind him not to play the chicken dance no matter how much Han insists. I’ll be right back.”

Which leaves Ben standing alone with Rey— his— his girl-that-he-fucked-in-a-bar-last-night and apparently also his sister, _some-fucking-how_ , though not his sister by blood thank _God_ and this cannot be happening, this is _not happening_ —

Rey seems to get over her crisis sooner than he does. Shifting her bouquet from one arm to the other, she sticks a hand out, face pursed tightly in pure determination. “Nice to meet you. I'm Rey.” The unspoken message couldn’t be clearer: _we’re going to pretend last night never happened_. “I’m glad that we’re going to be family.”

He really ought to smack her hand away and tell her that she’s got to be kidding, that his family is already enough of a sideshow and the last thing they need is more people in the circus. Instead, half in a trance, he accepts her hand and shakes it. “My name is Ben,” he recites back, feeling as though his voice is originating from somewhere about four feet to his left. “Nice to meet you too.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [**twitter**](https://twitter.com/hrotsvitha_g/status/1143253266551267329)


End file.
